


Rescue Me

by GarnetSeren



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-04-28 17:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarnetSeren/pseuds/GarnetSeren
Summary: Since emerging from cyro, two hundred years in the future, the intrepid sole suvivor of Vault 111 has made an impact on the Commonwealth. During the search for her son, she's made many friends and forged strong bonds. Normally, her friends... her new family... are there for her, without question. But sometimes, they need a helping hand just as much as she does; proving you don't have to be a woman, to be a damsel in distress.Chapters One & Two: MacCready vs the GunnersChapters Three & Four: Hancock vs Sinjin's CrewChapters Five & Six: Nick vs the Brotherhood of SteelChapters Seven & Eight: Deacon vs the InstituteChapters Nine & Ten: Preston vs Raiders





	1. MacCready

MacCready groaned as he swam back into consciousness. Everything hurt. His body was littered with cuts, bruises and abrasions. His shoulders and arms strained from being chained behind him for so long, his knees throbbed from being forced to kneel on the cold concrete.

He tried not to shiver, but the wind that howled through the old bunker was unforgiving. It would have been chilly wrapped up in his duster, scarf and military cap. But now with them confiscated, and his simple t-shirt slashed to ribbons, he was freezing.

Of course, that was the least of his problems.

MacCready had lost all sense of time, after he'd been dragged to the bunker, kicking and cursing; but he reckoned it had probably been a fortnight, since the Gunners got their grubby hands on him.

He still couldn't believe they'd gotten the drop on him. But then again, he'd been stupid enough to go scouting alone around one of the boss' new settlements, whilst she was off with one of her other companions. So it was his own fu... frigging fault.

He would have sighed, if his battered body let him.

Since being at the mercy of the Gunners, MacCready had been beaten more times than he could count. His left eye was almost swollen shut, he certainly had a few cracked ribs, and he didn't even want to think what state his back was in; all he knew was it stung like a bas...bugger, from the lashes he'd taken.

They'd starved him, barely given him any water; humiliating him by making him lap it from a bowl when they did... but that still wasn't the worst of it.

A few days ago, they'd started on his hands. Three fingers on his right hand and thr thumb on his left were badly broken, and MacCready knew that if they weren't seen by a doctor soon, he'd likely never hold a gun again... if he actually made it out of this alive.

It was obvious the Gunners wanted to make an example of him, since he'd deserted them, which was probably why he wasn't dead yet. But the situation just kept getting worse and worse. Captain fuc... frigging Bridget; who MacCready had tried to avoid like radiation sickness whilst he'd been a member, had taken over his punishment.

Bile rose in his throat at the mere thought of the bitc... woman.

Whilst with the Gunners, she'd hounded MacCready with unwanted attention and come-ons, whenever he'd had the misfortune to see her; and he'd rebuffed her none-too-kindly every time.

Which was probably why she looked almost gleeful, when she saw him bound and battered yesterday. She'd run her hands possessively over his partially uncovered torso, making his stomach roil at her touch, before roughly groping his crotch; kneading him through his trousers.

He'd spat at her for that, earning him one of the worst beatings yet. Which was probably why he'd lost consciousness in the first place, if he thought about it.

MacCready hung his head in defeat, as he started to realise he wasn't getting out of the fu...frigging hell hole he was trapped in.

His body was too battered and broken to fight them, no one knew where he was; and even if they did, he doubted anyone would come looking for him. He hadn't exactly made friends in the Commonwealth, and really, he'd been a bit of an as... butthole with the boss, ever since she'd approached him.

So even if she did realise he was missing, rather than just taking her money and bailing, MacCready doubted a rescue mission was on the cards... it wasn't like he deserved it, with the way he'd been with her.

Tears pricked his eyes, as he sat in silence; taking as deep a breath as his injured ribs let him. Since Lucy, MacCready hadn't really been scared of death, but he _hated_ that he was going to let Duncan down. What kind of sorry excuse of a father was he? His son was going to die, because of his own fu... frigging stupidity.

Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots in the distance, followed by several explosions. People were yelling; some in pain, others in anger.

MacCready lifted his pounding head, straining to hear. Something _big_ was happening out there. But he wasn't stupid enough to get his hopes up; it was probably just some raiders trying to take on the Gunners, which wasn't unusual.

However, perhaps that wasn't the case, since Captain Bridget stormed into his cell. She grasped MacCready by his matted hair, forcing his head back, and thrusted a knife against his exposed throat ominously.

“Who the fuck did you team up with?!” she demanded, snarling.

But before he could answer, the woman's head exploded. Thankfully, the blade clattered to the floor after barely pricking his skin, and MacCready blinked through the blood spattering his face. His mouth fell opened, stunned.

There was the boss; her hair wild, her eyes a little crazed. Her customary road leathers were splattered in blood, and her favourite gun was still pointed at the obviously dead bitc... Bridget.

As far as MacCready was concerned, he'd never seen anyone look more stunning; which would have worried him, if he had his wits about him.

The boss' insanely large dog was standing guard at the door, and MacCready could see blood dripping from it's muzzle. He decided not to think about it, even if it was a little disturbing, realising the boss used a hound who mauled people to death as a pillow nearly every night.

Not that it really mattered, because they were there. They'd come for _him_. And as MacCready stared at the pair, dumbfounded, and choked sob of relief escaped his lips.

The boss' gaze snapped to his; a myriad of emotions flittering across her face, before she settled on a weird mixture of furious anger and abject worry.

She sprung into action, hurriedly searching Bridget's corpse, before crashing to her knees in front of him. She made short work of unlocking his chains, slowly helping him ease his burning arms into a more natural position, before she unexpectedly cupped his face.

MacCready didn't even realise he was crying, until she gently wiped the cheek below his good eye. To say he was relieved was an understatement. The boss had actually come for him. And though she didn't know it, she'd not only saved his life, but kept him from failing his son... as long as he was alive, Duncan still had a chance.

He debated telling her everything, right there and then, but his thought process was quickly derailed.

Without warning, the boss pressed her surprisingly soft lips carefully to his forehead. MacCready sucked in a shocked breath; wincing immediately when his damaged ribs protested. But he still managed to notice the unshed tears in her eyes.

“I'm so sorry, Mac,” she whispered.

Her voice was so quiet, it was almost muffled by the sound of her digging through her extensive collection of pockets, until she produced a couple of stimpacks and a syringe of med-x. MacCready whimpered slightly as she injected the chems into his neck, he'd never been a fan of needles. But he sagged in relief, when the drugs started to work their magic.

He took tentative sips of purified water, as the boss held the can to his lips... the chems might have been working, but that didn't stop his fingers from needing to be reset... then let her help him stand.

MacCready wavered on unsteady feet, before the boss carefully slipped her arm around his waist. Her hand was warm and shockingly comforting, as it rested on his exposed skin, and he tried not to blush at how nice it felt.

Thankfully, the boss didn't comment on the small moan that escaped him. However, she did give him an surprisingly fond smile.

“Ready to get out of here?” she asked.

“Sure thing, beautiful.”

The words slipped out before he had the chance to stop them, and MacCready knew he was blushing as red as a Tato; though hopefully, the boss would just put his stupidity down to a head injury.

It wasn't that he didn't mean what he said, he did. The boss was utterly gorgeous, and that was the problem... because she was his boss. Inappropriate didn't even come close. Never mind that he was still missing Lucy; even after all the years.

However, instead of either chewing him out and dumping his sorry as... butt, or simply laughing in his face, the boss just gave him another affectionate smile. Her soft lips gently kissed his cheek; making him blush even harder, before she draped his arm over her shoulder, giving him extra support.

“Come on then, hotshot,” she chuckled. “Let's get you home."


	2. Nora's PoV

Nora frowned at MacCready's shivering form. Of course, it hadn't been that long since she'd mowed down a squad of Gunners to get to him; less than six hours, in fact. And at first, she'd thought his shaking was shock. He might not have said what had happened to him, but it was plain to see that past fortnight hadn't been a walk in the park for him.

Neither had the stumbling trek across the Commonwealth.

She'd wanted to stop at Somerville Place or Egret Marine, at least for the night, after taking out the Gunners in Vault 95; but MacCready had took to staring at his broken hands as they walked.

He hadn't said anything, but Nora new he was worry about them, so they'd made it to Diamond City just as darkness fell. Somehow, Doctor Sun had agreed to extend his opening hours to reset MacCready's fingers; and Nora suspected it was actually more because of the amount of blood she was covered in, rather than the excessive amount of caps she'd offered, that had convinced him.

Afterwards, Nora found MacCready a soft long sleeve at Fallon's to replace his tattered tee, and some jeans to wear, so she could patch up his torn trousers. She'd also bought him two steaming bowls of his favourite noodles from Takahashi, and grabbed an extra portion to reheat later, just in case.

She'd then ushered him into her modest city apartment; filled the cracked bath with water as hot as she dared for MacCready to bathe in, before she'd bundled him into her bed; piling on extra blankets, since he was still shivering... it was then that Nora realised it probably wasn't shock causing him problems.

Thinking about it, this wasn't the first time she'd seen him shivering. MacCready was _always_ in his duster, even on warm days, with his scarf and hat securely on. At night, he'd hunch as close to a campfire as he could; the collar of his coat turned up, one hand jammed into a pocket, whilst the other shaking as he smoked.

In truth, when they first started working together, Nora wondered if MacCready was some sort of alcoholic, with the way he trembled so often. But now she realised the poor sod was freezing, and too stubborn to say anything. An epiphany that only emerged during their halting trek to Diamond City, when his teeth wouldn't stop chattering.

So in silence, Nora sat in the lumpy armchair beside the bed as MacCready dozed, carefully sewing a warmer lining into his coat. Idly, she wondered if there was anywhere to get wool or yarn any more; she'd not been the best knitter before the war, but Nate had loved the scarves and gloves she made him every winter. She had the feeling MacCready wouldn't turn down a set. Though before she could think on it further, his teeth began to chatter again.

Nora shook her head. It was ridiculous... not just because the place was as warm as anything ever got in the Commonwealth, but because he refused to admit something was wrong. Nora could tell from his breathing he wasn't asleep, and she knew she'd been humming along to the radio whilst she sewed, so MacCready knew he she was nearby. But he still opted to suffer. 

Biting back a sigh, Nora set his coat to the side, before whistling for her faithful hound. Dog's ears immediately perked up, and once he looked at her, she nodded towards the bed. Barking playfully, the giant Alsatian bounded up in front of MacCready, making the man flinch.

“What the fu... fudge?!”

Chuckling, Nora slipped into bed behind the mercenary, grinning when he turned to look at her. His lovely blue eyes were opened comically wide, as he pushed himself up on an elbow. He looked like a rabbit caught in headlights, as she shimmied closer and circled her arms his around his surprisingly slender shoulders... MacCready was normally bundled up in so many layers, that Nora had never noticed how _skinny_ he was, until now. It worried her.

“Um... boss?” he asked, clearly uncertain.

“Don't worry, hot shot,” she smiled. “You might be good looking, but I'm not about to jump you.”

Adorably, MacCready blushed at her words.

“Body heat is the best way to warm up. Basic survival, right?” Nora continued.

“R-right,” he stuttered.

With a little coaxing, MacCready lay back down; his head resting on Nora's shoulder. Only thin layers of cotton separated their torsos, and their denim clad legs eventually tangled together, as he began to skowly relax.

At first, MacCready held himself stiffly. But eventually, the tension slowly drained out of his body. However, Nora tried not to hiss in surprise, when his cold hand found a stripe of skin left bare on her side; exposed thanks to her t-shirt bunching up.

Nora couldn't believe how frozen he still felt. So she gave another soft whistle, that prompted her dog to curl up closer to MacCready's other side. Her arms tightened around his still shivering form; her cheek resting on his slightly damp hair, as she inhaled the generic smell of utilitarian soap, as well as a hint of gunpowder and oil, that seemed to be MacCready's unique scent.

And though she didn't mention it, Nora smiled softly, when he began to draw hesitant, nonsensical patterns on her skin with his fingertips.

“Thanks, boss,” he whispered.

Nora squeezed his shoulders. “Anytime, Mac.”


	3. Hancock

Hancock's whole body shuddered uncontrollably. His head pounded, his eyes stung, and he could taste the tell-tale metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Defeated, he slumped against the bars of his barren cell.

It had to have been about a week since Sinjin's goons had caught him. How they managed it, Hancock wasn't sure. One minute he'd been talking to Farenheight... during one of his brief stops in Goodneighbour, whilst a certain ray of sunshine was off with Nick, doing who knows what... the next, his office was filled with choking thick smoke.

Hancock vaguely remembered being hit over the back of his head, then nothing, until waking up in the dank cage that was masquerading as a cell.

His captors had let on pretty early that were Sinjin's men; wanting revenge for the death of their leader. Hancock had just prayed and hoped that Nora was alright. He'd been the one to ask her to take out Sinjin after all, so he'd hate if it came to bite her on her gorgeous ass; especially after she'd taken the bastard down so easily, rescuing Kent along the way.

But since the idiots were constantly demanding to know her whereabouts, Hancock was certain his ray of sunshine was alright. Unfortunately, the bastard's didn't believe he didn't actually know where she was.

So the days since his capture had been filled with beatings with a sprinkle of torture; nothing major, just some tactical stabbing here and breaking bones there. If Hancock was being honest, he'd had worse at the hands of Vic's boys; but of course, he didn't say that. He didn't want to give the fuckers any ideas.

But what was worse than the violence; which probably would have been pretty bad, if he could feel things like a smooth skin could... damn insensitive ghoul skin was worth something, sometimes, it seemed... was the withdrawal.

Hancock's love of drugs was no secret, so it wasn't really a surprise the goons had thought to use it against him, and after just a day without any, the symptoms had started.

He'd had the shakes and an upset stomach immediately, he'd felt anxious since the second day; and now the seventh day was upon him, Hancock felt like utter shit. Both physically and emotionally. Logically, he knew it was the withdrawal, but it had been a _long_ time since he felt so hopeless.

Hancock half wished someone, anyone... though a very particular vault dweller sprug to mind... would come bust him out. Since without his weapons, boots or even his bloody jacket with it's pockets fully of bobby pins, he could hardly free himself. Though the other half, probably the half controlled by the withdrawal, hoped no one would find him.

Fuck, after what he'd done in his past, Hancock figured he probably deserved it. No one needed to put their life on the line for a bastard like him; especially a ray of sunshine like Nora. She had so much on her plate, spent her time doing so much good, that she didn't need to be wasting time on an asshole like him. 

It wasn't just that either, Hancock knew what a pathetic mess he was. No sauve and sexy king of the zombies that was for sure; not that he ever had been. It was just a good lie to make people miss his self hatred.

Sighing, Hancock rested his head against the cold metal bars. The whole situation was fifty shades of fucked up. He was desperate for some Jet, to calm the fuck down. Or some mentats, so he could figure a way out of the fucking hell hole.

Behind him, he heard footsteps approaching; the boots hitting the concrete loud and angry. Hancock shut his eyes. No good would come from a sound like that, and he knew one of the assholes had come to take whatever it was, out on him.

Until someone gently touched his shoulder.

Hancock all but jumped out of his withered skin. No one ever touched him so softly, only Nora. With his heart hammering in his chest, he whipped around to face the new comer, going slack jawed at the sight of the gorgeous vault dweller; even the blood and gore splattering her face and armour couldn't detract from her beauty.

Not quite believing what he was seeing, Hancock scrubbed at his tired eyes... it wasn't unheard of for withdrawals to cause hallucinations after all, and the sight of her holding out a canister of Jet to him, was certainly something his traitorous mind would dream up.

But no, she was actually there with him; because Hancock doubted that even his addled body would dream up the soft feeling of her fingertips caressing his, when she handed over the chem.

“What you doing here, Sunshine?” he rasped.

Nora frowned. “Getting you out of here...”

The way she said it, made it sound like it was the most obvious, unquestionable thing in the world; and Hancock nearly laughed. He couldn't believe she'd come, for him of all people. He certainly didn't fucking deserve it, no matter how relieved he was to see her.

Regardless, after shaking the canister, he took a long hit of Jet, before settling back to watch her pick the lock. It took her no time at all, then she was helping him walk on unsteady legs. Hancock couldn't look her in the eye, knowing she could feel his body trembling, as she linked her arm through his.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

Hancock gave a huff of laughter, just for her. “You see the brand on the Brahmin that stamped on my head last night?”

“Need anything else?”

As she spoke, she nodded towards the Jet canister than dangled from his fingers. He was about to reply, when a distinctive mutt barrelled around the corner. Hancock's laugh was a little more genuine, when he realised her dog was holding his distinctive coat in it's jaws. However, it was short lived. The mirth swallowed up by a mixture of embarrassment and longing, when the pre-war bombshell had to help him into his jacket.

“Now, don't suppose you have a spare gun?” he asked, forcing a grin.

“Funnily enough...”

Without ceremony, Nora reached for one of the guns strapped to her back, and it took Hancock a moment to realise it was his favourite shotgun; the one she'd modded for him, when they first started travelling together. She handed him a box of shells, before unslinging her own double-barrel.

“We shouldn't need them though,” she advised.

And fuck. She wasn't kidding.

As they made their halting way out of the shitty raider base, Hancock lost count of the decimated corpses they stepped over. Some were mostly intact, bar a decapitated head here, or vicious shotgun blast to the chest there. Others... well... it was only context that let Hancock know the random pieces of bloody flesh had once been human.

It was more than clear that the vault-dweller had been on a rampage; and to think, she'd not only done it for him. Hancock couldn't believe he'd once doubted she could handle herself. She as a one woman army.

“Partake in a little therapy while you were here, sister?” he asked, deadpan.

Nora shrugged, refusing to look at him. “They had you.”

Hancock stopped dead, thankfully before he put his still bare foot in a suspiciously red puddle; he really needed to loot some boots of one of these corpses.

He hadn't expected her to sounds so angry, let alone so worried. He was stunned. Despite knowing for a while that Nora counted on him during a fight, and that they had an easy rapport of banter, Hancock hadn't realised she genuinely cared. He felt honoured, if he was being honest with himself. 

“Thanks, Sunshine,” he said, quietly. “For... ah... caring. And... busting me out.”

She gave him a tight lipped smile. “Anytime, John. Let's... just not make a habit of it, okay?”

Hancock grinned at her. “Anything you want, beautiful.”

“Promises, promises,” she replied, matching his smirk. 


	4. Nora's PoV

After getting the urgent message from Fahrenheit, courtesy of Kent and the Silver Shroud radio, Nora had taken her Alsatian and gone on a rampage. Knowing raiders were generally as thick as shit, she'd gone back to Milton General on a hunch, and sure enough, that's were the remains of Sinjin's crew had holed up.

As she watched Hancock shake and shudder in bed, Nora wished she'd made them suffer more. Of course, some bastards would say the withdrawal was the his own fault; but it wasn't just those symptoms Nora saw... she noticed the way he'd limped, the several splotches of red vivid red on his no-longer-white shirt, and the way several of his fingers weren't quite at the same angle any more.

Nora bit back an angry sigh, as Hancock groaned in his sleep. Oh, how she wished she could kill those bastards again for him. Getting him to the relative safety of The Slog had been the most fraught journey of her life, even surpassing her first attempt at reaching Diamond City, which ended up with Nora discovering Goodneighbour instead.

At first, Hancock had refused to admit that anything was wrong, stoicly trying to walk unaided, despite moving like a new born radstag. It had taken a run in with a super mutant for him to admit his left leg was probably broken.

Nora had nearly flinched when she'd wrapped her hand around his waist for support, since her fingers came away alarmingly red, when they accidentally found a suspiciously warm wet patch on his side. It had taken another twenty minutes to convince Hancock using a stimpack for the _several_ stab wounds he had, was not a waste of her supplies.

So it was dark by the time they reached The Slog, the residents hurrying out to help, even before they realised who was needing them. Wiseman had even offered them his own bed for Hancock to recover in, since it was slightly more secluded than the others.

Deirdre had refused to let Nora buy the supplies they needed; insisting they were on the house. Jones had helped her stitch up the worst of Hancock's wounds, whilst Holly had more or less hovered, waiting to be useful. However, the ghoul seemed generally surprised when Nora easily touched Hancock's withered skin.

Nora couldn't help frowning at the woman, even as her thumb gently rubbed over her friend's knuckles, whilst he clutched her hand in his fitful sleep.

In all homestly, she couldn't really understand why so many humans had a problem with ghouls. Sure, they looked different but from her limited experience, Nora thought their skin looked and felt more like chemical burns, rather than the rotting flesh that some seemed to think they had. Of course, Ferals actually had necrosis to go along with their decayed minds, but to Nora those creatures were as close to ghouls as they were to humans. Which meant not even remotely similar.

She was about to say as much, when Hancock gave another pained groan, almost curling in on himself. Without thinking, Nora slipped off the stool she perched on, settling on the bed beside him, and curled her arms protectively around his slender shoulders.

“Sunshine?” he whispered.

His voice was hoarse, and his eyes barely cracked open. Frowning in concern, Nora readily accepted the can of purified water Holly offered, before she held it to Hancock's thin lips.

“Of course, John,” she murmured, quietly.

“Stay?”

Nora huffed a soft laugh, as Hancock's arms slowly slid around her waist. He managed to look up at her once, his onyx eyes glimmering in the warm lamp light, before slipping shut. She smiled fondly, shuffling so that he could rest his head on her thigh, and began to stroke his forehead from the bridge of his non-existent nose, to where his hairline would be; much like she used to do for Nate, when he had a migraine.

“No where I'd rather be,” she told him, honestly.


	5. Nick

Quick, heavy footsteps could be heard stomping down the metal corridor towards his makeshift prison. At the sound, his servos started to whir loudly, and if he were human, Nick knew his heart would be beating furiously. But he wasn't human... which was the reason he'd gotten into this mess in the first place.

As the steps drew nearer, he tried to push himself into a seated position. Which was somewhat difficult, when one of hid legs had been forcibly removed, and both hands had been crushed to see if his metal skeleton was stronger than a humans. 

However, Nick was determined not to take whatever they decided to do to him lying down. Even stripped of his trademark clothes, looking like a Gen-2 that had escaped the garbage, Nick still had some semblance of pride.

“If this is another fucking 'your princess is in another castle' bullshit, I'm going to slaughter those mother-fucking bastards again!”

Nick's startling yellow eyes snapped to the locked door of his makeshift prison, and despite not having saliva, his mouth suddenly felt dry. There was only one person who could sound so sweet, whilst cursing like a sailor, and he hadn't dared hope he'd hear her voice. 

“Sunshine, I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm pretty sure you can only kill someone once.”

Out of habit, Nick sucked in a surprised breath, as he immediately recognised Hancock's voice.

“Aw... John, you're no fun...”

Nick could easily imagine the smirk Nora would be wearing, as she undoubtedly set about hacking the terminal that would free him from his prison. He wanted to call out to her, to tell her to hurry up, and make some quip about the whole reverse damsel in distress act becoming their thing. Only he couldn't forget the state he was in.

The Brotherhood of Steel had really done a number on him.

Of course, he'd not exactly been a pretty picture to begin with; what with his ripped, patchy and even missing synthetic skin. His wires were always on display in more places that he was really comfortable with, not to mention his right hand, that was more mechanical claw than artificial fingers.

Nick had always known he didn't measure up to much, even before he stood next to the pre-war bombshell that was Nora... a dame so smoking hot, that she turned heads wherever she went. No one could resist her many charms, including Nick himself.

But then the Brotherhood had gotten their bigoted hands on him, and Nick knew he was definitely more scrap than person now. In fact, he didn't even know where all his limbs were any more. The Brotherhood had been eager to play 'see how pain effects the synth', and they'd gone about it with gusto.

Whilst Nick wasn't sure he could feel pain like a human or ghoul could, he knew the constant 'experiments' he'd been subjected to had hurt like hell. And even if he didn't feel emotions like someone of flesh and blood, which he also wasn't certain of, his body still thrummed with relief, anxiety, hope and fear.

As relieved as he was that rescue was at hand, Nick was terrified that Nora would think less of him, when she saw him in a broken heap; he had less worries about Hancock though, considering what the man had also gone through. But the thought that Nora would think differently of him would make his stomach churn, if he had one. 

Though the time for worry was up. The metal door slowly slid open, revealing the pair silhouetted by the harsh light behind them, with Nora's large Alsatian beside them. The hound gave a pitiful whine, and Nick's optics worked overtime, as he tried to read his friend's faces. Hancock was easy enough, with his onyx eyes narrowed menacingly. Nora was another story, her beautiful face a blank mask.

The duo shared a single look, Hancock barely nodding as he pivoted and marched off out of sight, the dog trotting at his heels. Several loud shotgun blasts could be heard followed by loud angry cursing, and Nick got the impression their wouldn't be much left of the Brotherhood squadron, other than blood stains and indistinguishable chunks of flesh.

Whilst Hancock was off doing whatever he was doing, Nora slowly walked towards Nick. He couldn't take his optics off her, though he was afraid to meet her eyes. Instead, he opted for watching the sway of her hips as she closed the distance between them.

“Hey Valentine,” she whispered, her voice noticeably shaking. “We've got to stop meeting like this.”

“Hey, doll,” he managed, quietly. “Really got to love this whole reverse damsel act we've got going on.”

“I'd say it's our thing, but I'd rather not make a habit of it,” Nora replied.

Nick chanced looking up at her then, alarmed to see unshed tears in her eyes. He couldn't believe they were for him... some beat up rejected synth... but all clues pointed to that conclusion.

He watched as her hand trembled as she reached for his face, and debated making some sort of joke, just to try to put Nora at ease. After all, if she was shaking at the thought of touching him, the Brotherhood must have done more of a number on him than he realised.

But then he caught the look on her face; she wasn't sacred to touch him, she was concerned, worried she was going to hurt him. Unable to help himself, Nick shut his artificial eyes when her warm hand carefully cupped his mostly intact cheek. He knew if he were human, he'd be crying.

“I'm so sorry, Nick,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

“Not your fault, doll.”

He'd have said more, but at that moment, Hancock strolled back in the room, puffing on a Jet canister. His shotgun was once more strapped to his back, and his free hand held the detective's missing leg. Meanwhile, the dog still walking beside the mayor had what looked suspiciously like Nick's ruined trench coat in it's jaws; he nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“You know Nicky, it's us ghouls who're supposed to lose parts of themselves,” Hancock drawled. “Thought you had things more together than that.”

Nick shrugged. “You know how it is, you go out for the night, end up blacking out, wake up with parts of you missing.”

Hancock took another puff of Jet, nodding. “Oldest story there is, brother.”

The two lapsed into silence, both turning their attention to Nora, who had produced a tool roll from one of the many pockets of her armour. Nick was both thankful and ashamed she'd thought to bring it. After all, it clearly demonstrated how inhuman he was, and highlight one of the many reasons why he hadn't said anything about his feelings to Nora; despite how often Ellie, Piper and even Hancock prompted him to.

Because yes, he had more than a slight crush on Nora. He had done ever since she'd rescued him from Skinny Malone and his two timing dame, but he wasn't fool enough to say anything, just being her friend was enough. It was more than a beat up synth like him deserved, especially when she went about risking life and limb for him.

Nick had been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed Nora had finished reattaching his leg, until she was offering her hand to help him up. Thankfully it was Hancock that insisted on helping him dress, since his hands were too badly damaged to work the fastenings himself, whilst Nora went to scavenge for supplies.

Of course, they could have just let him walk out naked; it wasn't like there was anything to see, other than wiring that really should be concealed behind synthetic skin. But Nick was very glad they didn't, relieved and grateful even, since he still had hold of a small slither of pride.

So finally dressed, Nick walked a little stiffly with Hancock to the building's entrance, not at all surprised to see Nora and her dog already waiting for them. However, what Nick hadn't expected, was for her to produce a worn fedora from behind her back, before placing it slightly askew on his bald head.

“There we go, handsome as ever,” she smiled.

“Thanks doll,” he chuckled.

“Ready to get this freak show on the road?” Hancock asked, grinning.

The dog barked happily, answering for all of them.


	6. Nora's PoV

Nora's hands trembled slightly, as she carefully fixed a new piece of synthetic skin over the gaping hole in Nick's torso. The pair sat in silence in her workshop at Red Rocket, whilst Dog snoozed in the sun outside, and Ada meandered around the tiny allotment Nora had created for the garage.

Hancock had gone ahead to Sanctuary, in order to let the others know what had happened. Or at least, an abridged version of events, since Nora doubted Nick wanted anyone else to know the full extent of what had happened, especially when he was barely looking her in the eye anymore.

At first, she'd worried he was upset or uncomfortable with her for having a literal bin full of Gen-2 synthetic parts, stored in the Robot Workshop. Nora had felt the need to explain she'd been looting them whenever she could, just like she did with armour or weapons from Raiders, and Nick had assured her there wasn't a problem.

However, that was the last time he'd spoken to her, and that was several hours ago. Time in which he'd sat shirtless in her workshop, as Nora replaced wires, tightened bolts and adhered new plating to his battered body.

Currently, Nora was knelt between his knees, as she leant up to attach artificial skin to his jaw and neck; protection for the new wiring she'd just installed for him. Carefully, she held the surprisingly supple material in place, as she waited for the wonderglue to bond. It was then that she noticed the thrum that rippled through Nick's body.

“Are you cold?” she asked, quietly. “I have a blanket around here somewhere.”

“Don't worry doll,” he replied, still not looking at her. “It's just these old servos, they don't run as smoothly as they use to.”

“As long as you're okay. I know my bed side manner isn't the best.”

Nora smiled up at him, her fingers trailing down his neck to his shoulder. Nick dipped his head, hiding his glowing eyes beneath the brim of his hat. For some reason, it gave her the impression that he'd be blushing, if it was possible for a synth to do so.

“Don't think a mechanic needs a bed side manner,” he tried to joke.

She frowned, not liking Nick's tone of voice; it was his 'I'm not a real person' tone, and Nora _hated_ it. He was such a beautiful soul, and it hurt to hear Nick put himself down. But after what he'd been through, Nora knew the last thing he needed was a lecture. So she bit her tongue, literally, and turned her attention to the two new hands she'd prepared.

Nick's original ones had been too badly crushed to save, but thankfully, Ada had found two practically undamaged ones in their stash; because really, the workshop was as much the robot's as it was Nora's at this point. But despite being lucky enough to have a pair of hands available, she wasn't sure how to broach the subject with him. Though after a moment's hesitation, Nora decided on the direct root.

“Do you want me to strip the right hand, or leave it as is?” she asked.

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “You're a crazy dame, you know that, doll?”

Nora chuckled. “And you're just figuring this out now, Nicky? Though I have to ask, what have I done this time?”

“Most people wouldn't ask if they should replace a broken part with another piece of scrap,” he replied, his gaze flitting away again.

“It's your body, Nick. I'm not going to assume,” she stated, gently. “And for the record, it's not a piece of scrap. Before those bastards, it was an unique part of you, a wound that didn't heal properly. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You really believe that, don't you?” Nick ask, his voice subdued.

“Of course I do. You're a person, same as me... same as any of us,” she explained.

“Pretty sure you don't need parts replacing, doll.”

Nora snorted. “Tell that to Crocker. He's been trying to get me to have work done since the first time I stepped foot in Diamond City.”

“But you're perfect!” Nick blurted out, incredulous.

His glowing yellow eyes widened a moment later, and he once again dipped his hat over his face; definitely his version of blushing, Nora decided. And talking of blushing, she was certainly glad she'd never been the type to do so. She was incredibly flattered by his outburst, albeit a little surprised.

“The feeling's mutual, Nicky,” she said, softly.

An expectant hush fell over them, as Nora began the painstaking job of removing his destroyed hands, carefully attaching his wired nervous system into the new limbs, before finally slidding the joints into the correct sockets. She diligently aligned the plating, then secured it in firmly place with wonderglue and several tiny screws. 

“Want to test that for me?” Nora asked, quietly.

Nick flexed both his new hands, then slowly wiggled his fingers; no doubt getting a feel for the new digits. He twisted his wrists, testing the joints, before he unexpectedly reached up to stroke her cheek with the back of his right hand. A slight look of surprise crossed his ruggedly handsome face, and Nora guessed he hadn't had much feeling in that appendage before now.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and thick with emotion. “And not just for the tune up.”

Without thinking, Nora captured his hand in hers. She cradled it to her cheek, before placing a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist. She bit back a giggle, as she heard his internal fans kick up a gear; evidently she'd inadvertently found a way to get the coolant pumping.

“I'd say any time, but I'd really prefer not to do it again. I'd much rather have you as a partner, instead of a case,” Nora smile.

Unexpectedly, Nick raised her hand to his surprisingly soft lips, kissing her knuckles.

“For you doll, I'll try my best."


	7. Deacon

Deacon tried to calm his breathing, tried to focus on counting the dilapidated ceiling tiles above his head, and tried not to focus on the sound of tools being sharpened nearby. Soon enough, it would all be fodder for one of his infamous tales... he just needed to keep telling himself that.

He'd already discovered there was no point trying to escape. A lesson he'd actually learnt a few days ago, when the cuffs binding his wrists and ankles to the cold metal table, had delivered an almighty shock to his body during his last attempt.

After that, Deacon had worryingly started to lose his sense of time. He no longer had a clue if it was day or night, and at his best guess, he'd been at the mercy of the Institute's hospitality for eleven days. Because despite the run down shack he was being held in, Deacon knew a Courser when he saw one.  
  
He also knew the Institute employed more mercenaries than just that bastard Kellogg, who Charmer had infamously gunned down several months ago. So he really shouldn't have been _that_ surprised, that the synth he'd been sent out to find was actually a merc working for the Institute. The fact they also sent a Courser to ambush him, should probably make Deacon proud.

It definitely sounded impressive at any rate, and was certainly going to add spice to the new story he's trying to concoct. It would probably make the cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, broken fingers and busted knee cap seem much more bad-ass as well. Not to mention the lacerations on his feet, and the cigarette burns on his most sensitive parts... though on second thought, he'd likely leave that detail out. That sort of thing didn't make for a good story, after all. 

Talking of good stories, was it worth mentioning he was stark naked through all of it? Deacon wasn't sure. However, it was a shame he wasn't wearing his sunglasses any more, since they'd been broken in the original fight.  _That_ would certainly have added flare to the tale.

“Is it necessary to take this long to extract information?” an expressionless voice asked, somewhere to his left.

“I've told you before, X5, torture is an art,” replied a grizzly voice. “It takes time, patience. Especially when they're as pretty as this one.”

Unable to help himself, Deacon snorted. He didn't think he'd ever been called that before, it was _definitely_  going into his story... Glory would get a kick out of it, though no one would ever believe it.

“Oh, you like that, pretty boy?” the grizzled merc asked, coming into view. “Just wait until I'm through with you.”

Deacon could hear heavy footsteps leave the room, which was presumably the Courser exiting; and who would have guessed, the Institute's boogie-men didn't have the taste for torture.

He wondered if that would be worth a mention in his tale, since he was still trying to cling to the notion that it would all be over soon. Which Deacon supposed it could be, especially when the merc held up a wickedly sharp knife that glinted in the dim light... just not the way he wanted it to.

If this was one of his stories, he'd need an epic rescue scene. Something with drama, suspense, and the hero swooping in at the last second, guns blazing.

But who was he kidding? If it was up to him, there would only be one person doing the rescuing... a leading lady who could charm a bloody deathclaw to be a lapdog if she wanted, or talk a Raider into joining a knitting circle if she put her mind to it.

Charmer. The heroine that the whole commonwealth needed, not just him.

However, that was oddly romantic and poetic for him, and despite his perchance for lies, Deacon did try to be a realist. He wouldn't have survived as many situations as he had, without seeing the nitty-gritty of the real world; which meant he knew his partner was undoubtedly somewhere else, helping people that deserved her time far more than he did.

Besides, if Deacon was being completely honest with himself, especially as the merc slowly brought the blade worrying close to his exposed right eye, he didn't see a happy ending for himself.

Deacon took a shuddering breath, hoping he'd die before revealing any of the Railroad's secrets. Because this was it. The end of the line. 

Until the mercenary's head suddenly exploded. The knife clattered to the table he was tied to, and Deacon risked a relieved sigh. He couldn't see who his savour was, but he heard the sound of tapping, as they presumably began to hack into the nearby terminal. A moment later, there was a loud beep, and the cuffs finally released their too tight hold.

Deacon would have liked to have said he immediately sat up, paying no heed to his injuries. But the truth of the matter was that he could only stare up at Charmer, as her stupidly beautiful face came into view.

She would have been a sight for sore eyes, even if she didn't look like a pre-war pin up. Which of course, she did. Despite the fact she was inexplicably dressed as the Silver Shroud.

“You're disguises need more work,” he stated, deadpan.

“Ha! Says you,” Charmer snorted. “Hate to break it to you, Dee, but you really need to brush up your seduction techniques. Not that the view is all that bad, but I prefer my naked men blood and injury free.”

“Damn,” Deacon sighed, dramatically. “And here I was hoping your were into that kinky shit. You disappoint me, Charmer.”

The pair lapsed into silence as she carefully helped him to sit up, though try as he might, Deacon couldn't help the odd whimper that escaped his clenched teeth. Once he was perched on the edge of the table, Charmer gave a low whistle, and immediately scampering dog claws could be heard. A moment later, her large hound trotted into view, her backpack held between it's teeth.

Without a word, Charmer began to rummage through her bag, before quickly retrieving a set of clothes, several Stimpacks and a syringe of Med-X. Deacon shamelessly let his forehead rest on her shoulder, as she carefully insert the first needle into the bicep of his good arm.

To his surprise, he felt her lips softly press to his bald head, and unable to help himself, Deacon reached for her hip. She was warm and solid under his touch, the thick cotton of her padded trench coat was smooth under his palm; confirming that yes, she was real. Charmer really _had_ come for him.

It took Deacon longer than he would have liked to eventually get dressed. The t-shirt was the worst of it, but there hadn't been tears in his eyes when it was finally on; no matter what Charmer said.

Obviously, that wasn't going in his story. But then again, it might be interesting to include how the heroine couldn't keep her hands off him... not that anyone would believe it, considering who the leading lady was.

Charmer was so _good. S_ o far out of his league, that it wasn't even funny. Which was why Deacon _never_ lay in bed at night, thinking about her. Nope, not even once. 

“Come on, handsome,” she smiled. “Better get Carrington to look at that arm.”

'And the rest' was very loudly left unsaid. Something that Deacon only helped prove, when he ended up needed Charmer's support to hobble out of the dingy room. However, he managed a small genuinely smile for her, when she silently handed him a new pair of shades. The relief he felt as he slipped them on, once again covering his distinctive blue eyes, was indescribable.

It was just in the nick of time too, because to his surprise, Glory and High Rise were waiting in the adjoining room; the former rummaging through the dead Courser's pockets. Deacon shook his head, looking between the three of them, trying to process that they'd taken out a _Courser_ , just to rescue him.

High Rise shrugged. “Our girl Charmer is as good with a gun, as she is with words.”

“All guns blazing too,” Glory smirked. “Any one would think she was worried about you.”

Charmer laughed, but her arm tightened around his waist. “Nah, just didn't want to train a new partner. Dee's already house broken, after all.”

In a rare show of honest emotion and affection, Deacon pressed his chapped lips to her temple. “Thanks, partner. I owe you one."


	8. Nora's PoV

Nora _hated_  staying in the crypt. She didn't care if everyone else called it HQ, it was a bloody crypt, still filled with dead bodies... just because there were living bodies lying sleeping all around her as well, didn't make the situation any better.

She'd do just about anything to avoid spending more time in the horrid place than necessary, but Nora had to reluctantly admit the situation _was_ necessary.

It was for Deacon. Her cock-sure, far too mouthy for his own good, partner.

When Nora had seen that bastard mercenary standing over him, she'd seen red. No real thought had gone into blowing his brains out; not like the careful planning and pinpoint timing she, Glory and High Rise had poured into taking out the damn Courser. No, Nora's finger had pulled the trigger before her brain caught up with her gut instinct. Not that she was complaining, not about that at least.

However, if only she'd been quicker, found better intel, hadn't let Deacon go off on his own in the first place even... what ifs were useless, Nora knew that. But she couldn't help wondering what she could have done differently, to prevent her partner from suffering. She hated that she hadn't been fast enough, but at least she'd saved him.

It was more than she could do for Nate.

With that thought in mind, Nora gave up the pretence of trying to sleep, only nightmares would find her tonight if she succumbed. So biting back a groan, she sat up and stretched, not exactly surprised to find Deacon looking her way. Or more accurately, she wasn't surprised to find his sunglasses reflecting the low lamp light, as he turned towards her.

Silently, he inclined his head towards the exit that led into the church, and Nora nodded. Carefully, she picked her way over a sleeping Drummer Boy, Tinker Tom and Glory. She nearly made it passed High Rise, who was bunking at HQ for the night, before his hand shot out to grab her ankle. It was a small wonder Nora didn't yelp in shock, and she glared at him for scaring her.

He raised an expectant eyebrow at her, before his gaze flicked to Deacon's retreating back. Nora understood immediately, and gave High Rise a wink. A silent: 'don't worry, I've got this'. High Rise gently squeezed her ankle in reply, before rolling back over.

Shaking her head, Nora jogged to catch up with Deacon, flicking on her Pip Boy's torch to help light their way through the creepy catacombs. Of course, he knew the winding tunnels gave her the heebie-geebies, and though he liked to crack jokes about finally finding something that scared the 'Illustrious Charmer, Fearless General of the Minutemen', Deacon still held out her elbow so she could link her arm with his.

They made their way through the quiet church, that was thankfully not only free of feral ghouls but also their horrid rotting bodies too, courtesy of several railroad agents who hated the place almost as much as Nora did.

The wooden stairs of the steeple creaked a little ominously, as Deacon led her upwards to the neglected bell tower. However, though it was dilapidated, two oil lanterns still burned on the window sill. She supposed that was his doing. 

Regardless, Nora boosted herself up to sit on the ledge, her legs dangling precariously over the edge of the tower. Behind her, Deacon gave a small noise of protest, and a ghost of a smile tugged the corner of Nora's mouth.

This was her payback for being dragged to through the tunnels. She hated the crypts, he hated heights; which meant he'd probably been intending to just sit on the worn floor of the tower, with his back pressed up against the flaking whitewashed wall.

As it was, Deacon sighed before leaning against the sill next to Nora, his feet planted firmly inside the steeple.

The silence between them stretched on, but it was anything but uncomfortable. Since she started working with him, Nora had learnt that Deacon lied ninety-nine per cent of the time, and he was bending the truth the other one per cent. Deacon being quiet was the only time she knew he was being truthful, so she didn't try to fill the silence with idle chatter.

Instead, he gave another world weary sigh, before leaning his head against hers. Nora gave a huff of laughter, her hand snaking across his surprisingly toned stomach, to give him a one armed hug.

The stayed like that for who knows how long. The chill night air whistling around them, and the sound of distant gunshots ringing somewhere below them. Nora stayed looking out over the Commonwealth, trying to pick out her settlements from the glowing lights on the horizon, until she felt Deacon tap her hand.

Nora moved immediately, swinging her legs back inside the tower, just as he sat himself down on the worn wooden floor. Surprisingly, Deacon was avoiding her gaze, his sunglasses facing any direction but her. Curious, Nors sat down beside him, intrigued that the silence had lasted so long, especially now he was being shifty again.

She lightly bumped her shoulder into his, a quiet 'I'm here for you', that finally got Deacon to glance at her. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, which was so unlike him that Nora began to worry, until he raised his arm nearest to her... an obvious and open invitation.

Though surprised, Nora wasted no time in cuddling up to him. It wasn't like they'd never hugged before, but it was always in the heat of the moment. A 'thank god you're alive' or 'don't scare me like that again'. There had never been any soft or gentle moments, and all at once, Nora understood Deacon's hesitance.

He thought she was going to reject him.

Unexpected tears pricked Nora's eyes, as she curled up closer to him. Her arm once again crept across his torso, pulling them as tight together as she could manage, earning her s small chuckle. 

In the end, Nora sat in between Deacon's legs, leaning back into his chest with his knees bent to make excellent arm rests. Across her own bent knees sat a faded Live & Love magazine, that he'd retrieved from one of his pockets.

Why that instead of a Grognak comic he usually preferred, Nora had no idea. But she figured she could tease him about it another day. Right then, she was just content to sit with Deacon's pleasantly strong arms wrapped around her waist.

They still hadn't said a word to each other. But when he propped his chin on her shoulder, and nuzzled his ginger stubble covered cheek affectionately against her jaw, she supposed they didn't need to.

Deacon was only one hundred per cent honest when he was silent, and Nora was absolutely find with that.


	9. Preston

Preston let his head loll back against the rough wooden wall of the run down shack. He supposed the goon looming over him was demanding something, probably wanting the General's location, but he couldn't hear through the ringing in his ears. Not that it mattered, since he wouldn't have told them anyway.

He knew Raiders weren't smart, but surely by now they'd have figured out he wouldn't talk.

It was a week since they'd ambushed him, and Preston's face was so swollen from all the beatings, that he could only see out of his right eye, and even that was now blurred by blood... he was probably unrecognisable, but he tried not to think about it. Though a little harder to ignore was his shattered left leg, or the stab wound to the gut he'd just been 'gifted'.

A slightly hysterical laugh wanted to bubble up. If he hadn't talked after all they'd dished out, he wasn't going to. Why couldn't they get it through their thick skulls. It wasn't that Preston was scared to die, he was just fed up with the waiting. They wanted the General, he wasn't going to give them her location, so they might as well just finish him off.

He knew he'd already ruined their original plan, since he'd relayed a coded message telling the General not to come, when the Raiders had forced him to radio her. Honestly, it was hilarious that the bastards thought it would work in the first place.

The General had insisted on spending days coming up with what phrases to say, in case their men ever needed to relay covert information. The message meaning 'It's a trap' had been one of the first they'd ever decided, so he knew she understood his message. Namely that the whole set up was a trap, he was the bait, and she shouldn't come.

Preston knew he was expendable, though it was nothing the General had ever said or done. If anything, she did more for the men and women under her command than any before her. And that was the point, the General was instrumental in bringing the Minutemen back, to making them the force of good they were always supposed to be.

The General was everything they needed, and though she insisted on keeping him as her second in command, even after Ronnie Shaw came back to the fold, Preston knew he wasn't vital. Which meant the General would heed his warning, do the sensible thing and leave him.

However, whilst he was thinking all this, Preston supposed he'd forgotten to factor in something vital... the General herself. A woman who wouldn't back down if she thought the cause was worthy, a woman who risked life and limb every day for people she thought deserved that sacrifice. Some though she was a mad woman; with her tale of being frozen since the war, and her vendetta against the Institute. But he knew different. The General was a woman to be reckoned with.

So he guessed it shouldn't have been much of a shock, when almost in slow motion, he watched as the head of the looming Raider exploded. Preston tilted his head towards the door and found a silhouette standing there, with lumpy shapes littering the ground behind them, and vaguely he realised they must be bodies. Tiredly, he watched as the figure moved closer, and nearly chuckled again when his bleary eyesight finally focused.

There in all her glory, complete with the distinctive coat and hat Preston knew she actually hated, was the General.

She unceremoniously kicked the dead Raider out of her way, before squatting down on the blood smeared floor beside him. Preston figured he must be a little delirious, probably from the blood loss, but he was almost sure she reached out to gently stroke his swollen cheek.

“Good timing, General,” he slurred.

A faint smile twitched the corner of her mouth. “I know you like the style of things, so figured I better go fetch this old duster first, otherwise your rescue wouldn't have the right feel.”

“I knew you secretly liked that coat,” he smirked.

At the back of his mind, Preston wondered if he'd sustained some sort of head injury as well. This was the _General_ he was talking to. Of course, she was always the first to say she was 'just Nora', but from day one, she'd been storming into situations and saving his ass. And despite messing up how he'd asked her to take the position, Preston had always known the General was something else... something special.

“Just for that, screw ceremony and tradition. I'm going to burn this thing when we get back to the Castle,” she retorted.

Whilst they talked, the General had been diligently patching him up. She was alarmingly skilled with her hands, and Preston had barely noticed the copious amounts of Stimpacks and blood packs she'd used on him. To the point that he blinked in surprised at the discarded packages littering the floor.

Unable to help it, he did wince a little as she injected a dose of Med-X into his neck, trying not to think about how warm her hand was on the side of his throat. Though regardless, the chem helped ease the pain in his battered face, but did nothing for the swelling. He imagined he still looked an absolute mess, and doubted he looked much better under his clothes either, guessing he was probably black and blue.

However, Preston felt better than he had done in the past week, so readily took the General's hand when she offered to help him up. As he got to his feet, there was a familiar growl by the doorway. Glancing over, he saw the her large dog holding his beloved laser rifle in it's jaws. Huffing out a laugh, Preston accepted the gun before he walked out side by side with the General, hoping his limp wasn't as noticeable as it felt.

To his surprise, a small compliment of Minutemen were patrolling the grounds of the Raider camp. He glanced at the General, who merely shrugged, though seemed to be avoiding his gaze. Preston frowned, but before he could say anything, Ronnie strolled over to them.

“Good to see you in one piece, boy,” she greeted, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I tell you, the General was a woman possessed when we got your broadcast. She was like a mama Yao Guai.”

“Try a mama Deathclaw,” called one of the Minutemen.

“She nearly took off half cocked to get you,” Ronnie continued, chuckling. “Actually, she did. Took us half a day to catch up with her... and only managed it because she was side tracked mowing down a pack of muties.”

“I wasn't about to let these bastards think they could just take one of my people,” the General argued, though a smile was pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“Think they got the message loud and clear, ma'am,” another Minuteman shouted.

She shrugged, smiling, though pointedly ignored the bodies littered about. Her hand was surprisingly gentle when she rested it against his forearm. For some reason, the gesture seemed intimate, and Preston was glad his skin tone made a blush difficult to notice, though he could still feel the telltale burn flush up his neck and across his cheeks.

“You ready to head back to the Castle, Garvey?” she asked, gently.

He shook his head, feeling bewildered, but still offered her a small smile. “Sure thing, General.”

 


	10. Nora's PoV

Nora had watched Preston out of the corner of her eye throughout their trek back to the Castle. She was worried about him, and not just regarding his physical injuries; they were healing, she was more concerned about what was going on in his head.

She'd seen first hand how the mind could affect a soldier, Nate had been a different man after Anchorage, plague by nightmares and the slightest thing triggering flashbacks. It was horrible to witness, heartbreaking in fact, and she'd held her husband many nights as he cried; reliving the brief stint he'd been held at a People's Liberation Army PoW camp. She didn't want that for Preston.

He was a good man, who deserved so much more than what this shitty wasteland had given him. He had such a big heart, and was so full of ideals about how to make the Commonwealth a better place. In truth, Nora often saw a lot of Nate in Preston, or at least, how he was before the horrors of war had fully weighed him down... there was that same idealistic do-gooder attitude, which was the main reason she'd original agreed to the roll of General.

So she watched Preston carefully, cataloguing the times his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, or the times he seemed a little too alert; as if he was _waiting_ for someone to get the jump on him. And just like it had done with Nate, it hurt Nora to see such a good man suffer.

Thankfully, they made it back to the Castle just as night was falling, the flickering spotlights chasing the shadows away as they approached. Nora wasted no time in ordering one of the junior Minutemen to fill the copper tub in her quarters, before practically frog-marching Preston their herself.

Just as she suspected, he tried to politely decline her offer, but Nora was having no of it. Her quarters were ludicrously large and well appointed, perfect for him to recuperate in. Besides, the barracks would be far too rowdy, and the infirmary was still having building work done to it. Or that's what she argued at least. In truth, she just wanted to be on hand should he need anything. Camping on a bedroll on the floor was no great hardship, and there was certainly enough room if Preston kicked up a fuss, and Nora had to resort to dragging a spare cot in.

So after a few minutes of good natured disagreement, Preston finally relented, and Nora left her hound with him as he bathed; a happy medium between privacy, and reassurance that there'd be _some_ form of help if he needed it. Which left Nora at a bit of a loss, and deciding there was nothing better to do, she went in search of food.

The cook had smiled and readily waved her into the steam filled kitchen, though Nora was surprised to find a tray holding a bowl of simple soup and some salt crackers already waiting to be taken to Preston. She had a hunch Ronnie had something to do with it, but knew the old battle axe would never admit it. Still, Nora knew she'd have to find a way to thank the veteran... probably by tracking down the cigars the woman preferred.

Surprisingly, the journey to and from the kitchen had taken more time than she expected, and by the time Nora knocked on the door to announce her return, Preston was ready to call her back in. She found him perched on the edge of her stupidly large bed in just a t-shirt and fatigues, with her dog trying to nose him under the covers. Not for the first time, Nora wished camcorders still existed, the sight was just too cute.

Her attempt to hide her smile must have fallen flat, since Preston shook his head at her, even as he finally relented to the hound's surprising insistence. Nora chuckled as she set the tray on the bedside table, before moving to shuck off her coat and breast plate. Those abominations were left in a heap by the door, however she treated the hat more carefully, gently placing it on her chest of draws, before she dragged a chair up to the bedside.

“You holding up?” she asked, kindly.

Preston gave a huff of laughter. “I'm starting to envy those showers you had back in the day.”

Nora purposefully didn't glance at the copper bath, she could well imagine the state the water would be, now Preston was free of the built up grim, dried blood and the devil knew what else. Without meaning to, she wrinkled her nose, which drew an honest laugh from her companion. She raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Sorry, General,” he smiled. “But that was kind of, well... cute.”

It was Nora's turn to laugh. “Shhh... don't tell anyone. Can't let people think the leader of the Minutemen is _cute_ , our enemies will ever fear me again.”

“Don't think you need worry about that, you're a one woman army,” Preston replied.

Nora snorted. “Nate must have rubbed off on me more than I thought. He'd be so proud.”

“You two ever work together?”

She couldn't help laughing out right. “Heck no! He tried to take me hunting once, it was... bad. I felt so guilty at just the thought of killing a defenceless animal, that I couldn't pull the trigger. He relegated me to Fort Hagen's shooting range after that.”

Her smile turned wistful and fond as she remembered happier times. “He saw me in the courtroom once though,” she continued. “He was a witness in a military desertion case I was prosecuting. Nate said I terrified the living daylights out of him. Heck knows what he'd think of me now.”

“Proud, I reckon,” Preston smiled. “You're a good woman, General. You're out there everyday doing a lot of good, helping people who need it the most. I know I'd be damn proud if you were my woman.”

Preston seemed to catch what he said, because he suddenly coughed, clearly embarrassed. He open and close his still swollen mouth several times, before evidently failing to come up with anything to say. Nora bit back a chuckle, not wanting to make him any more uncomfortable. Though she wanted to do something to put his mind at rest. So gently, mindful of the fading bruises, she lightly lay her hand over his.

“The feeling's mutual,” Nora smiled. “I couldn't wish for a better person to help me with all this. You're a good man, Preston, and a good friend.”

He seemed stunned for a moment, before he returned her smile somewhat shyly. “Thanks, Gen... Nora. I won't let you down.”

 


End file.
